


Wintercearig

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Do I write anything longer than 600 words?, Drabble, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Short One Shot, Stanford Era, blaze it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:49:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7375114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>drabble: sam describes how pretty dean is, while high, short and sweet<br/>2nd person, sam is "you"</p><p>"Your first coherent thought in what seems hours is I'm going to Hell.</p><p>But it doesn't matter.</p><p>Because if you are drowning, it may as well be in Dean."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wintercearig

You're drowning in everything that is Dean.

Your hands reach out at the sky, it's night. The sky dotted in stars so very like his face. You touch nothing, and the water engulfs you further as you sink. Slowly, like some inside joke. You worry about that. _What isn't he telling me? What don't I know?_

This lake, is no lake at all. It's an ocean of harrowing memories and tears. It's salt, spice, metallic. It's blood. The water is red. You're swimming in some sick veil of reality. Through his eyes. What he sees. 

Lies. All his mind is, it's lies.

It occurs to you that this mentality couldn't possibly be his fault. From an early age you're aware of the influence Dad has on him. To mold him, to erase any trace of any past they might have had. 

 _It's strange_ , you think. There's nothing more inherently Dean than whatever it is your looking at in this moment.

Something of a synapse. A series of interconnected webs and ideas stringing out to make up this big, beautiful galaxy. But hardly any of it is noticeable, the pain and bad things are the only places illuminated. Attention drawn to some thinly veiled puppet show, an attitude parodying whatever it is he's seen. Whatever it is he thinks about.

You reach out again, and this time you make it. Your palm brushes his cheek, you draw him in. He stares at you, what to make of this? Your thumb grazes beneath his eye, hand trailing down you touch his bottom lip. And you linger, because he let's out a tiny near undetectable gasp and he smiles slightly at you. 

It's enough. You hope. You smile right back and huff out a small laugh because this right here, while you've wailed on him. After he's fought right back, every inch of the way. This... is finally bliss.

The world disappears beneath you. He straddles your waist, fingers trailing your chest, pulling your hair.

You think for a moment that perhaps you've fallen onto a cloud. The mist and down comforter surround you. Music plays somewhere in the background.

Your first coherent thought in what seems hours is  _I'm going to Hell._

_But it doesn't matter._

Because if you are drowning, it may as well be in Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!!


End file.
